1
Reno bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and pushed open the door to the deserted apartment, only to stare directly into the barrel of a Glock.
Peter Madsen slowly put his gun away. “What the hell are you doing here? I could have shot you.”
Reno grinned. He knew Peter thought he was the most annoying, most flamboyant operative ever to work for the Committee, that covert organization of ruthless do-gooders, and he did his best to live up to that image. He brushed an invisible speck of lint off his leather jacket and kept his sunglasses firmly in place in the darkened room.
“I trust your instincts,” he said, closing the door behind him and strolling into the apartment. His pointy-toed leather cowboy boots echoed on the parquet flooring.
“How do you ever sneak up on anyone when you’re so damned noisy?” Peter said.
Reno gave him his most annoying smile. There was nothing he liked better than to irritate the Ice Man. “I manage,” he said. “I thought you might need a little help.”
“When I need help, I’ll ask for it.”
Reno shrugged. “Just trying to do my duty, boss. Isobel’s really gone, hasn’t she? Our fearless leader has disappeared, leaving you in charge.”
“Yes.” Peter glowered at him. “And don’t call me boss. It’s not my idea you’re here.”
“Not mine, either. You think she went with Killian?”
“I expect so.”
“Aah, true love,” Reno said. “For good?”
“I hope so,” Peter said.
“Why? So you can take over running the Committee?” Reno wandered over to the window to look out into the wet winter afternoon.
“Hardly. I’m passing this off to the first person qualified.”
“Then why?”
Peter shrugged. “Because this kind of life demands too high a price. Isobel and Killian stayed too long—they earned the right to get out of it.”
Reno snorted. “You don’t seem the sentimental kind to me.”
“And you’re such a great judge of character?”
Reno merely smiled his catlike smile. “So explain this to me,” he said in his deliberate English. “Why are we still in hiding? Why have my cousin and his wife disappeared somewhere in Japan? Thomason is dead—any contracts he put out should be canceled, and the Russian mercenaries should have lost interest. Mercenaries don’t work without money, and their source of income has dried up. We should be ready to move on to new things, not wasting time cleaning up old messes.”
“Maybe the Russians haven’t heard. Maybe they’ve moved on to other things, but our intel is spotty. Either way, I’m not about to take a chance. We’ve lost too many operatives to risk it. Besides, I’m rather fond of your cousin.”
“So am I. I also think he could hold his own against half-a-dozen retired Russian operatives,” Reno said.
“Probably. But we’re not going to find out. They stay hidden until we know it’s safe. You got that?”
Reno didn’t respond, changing the subject instead. “How is Mahmoud doing?”
“Fine,” Peter said gloomily. “I’m supposed to bring home a Play Station Three. The kid’s a ruthless, soulless assassin, so Genevieve’s plan is to get him blowing up virtual heads instead of real ones. No thanks to you.”
Reno laughed, heartlessly. “I’ll give you a list of games.”
“Christ,” Peter grumbled.